


bridal blossoms in her hair

by anabel



Category: British Royalty RPF
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, First Love, Lost Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2465612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabel/pseuds/anabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When men call Elizabeth the "Virgin Queen", they mean various things by it.</p><p>Elizabeth knows they're all meaningless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bridal blossoms in her hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joanne_c](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanne_c/gifts).



When men called Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, there was always code embedded in the name.

For some, it meant her stubborn wilfulness in refusing to give England an heir of her body. For others, it meant her determination to be married to her country, as a nun was married to God. For yet others, it meant her blindness to the fact that when her court favourites told her she was beautiful, they were no longer speaking the truth.

For Elizabeth, the words were meaningless. 

She would never give England an heir of her body, because she would not risk giving a hostage to fate. At two, she had been thrown away by her father like a crippled hunting dog, because she had not the cock men valued so much. At fourteen, she had been chased and beleaguered by her stepfather, as if she had been a country maidservant whose cunny was there for the taking. And at twenty, she had stood by, helpless, as her sister executed the love of her life.

She would be married to her country, because she had power over her country. She would not put her hand in a man’s, to be married before the sight of God, to vow to obey and serve him. She would not give him the power to hurt her, to chop off her head, to come unbidden into her bed to force her wedded duty upon her, to take away all of her happiness. 

She would turn a blind eye when her court favourites told her she was beautiful, because if it was a lie, it was a kind one. It had been many years since someone had told her she was beautiful and meant the words sincerely, honestly, without plan or plot.

So many years.

Once she had been a maiden, a true virgin, despite her stepfather’s meddling. She had run through the meadows, laughing, her hair falling unbound around her shoulders. She had danced hand-in-hand with the girl she was falling in love with, feeling the sun warm on her skin. She had kissed the girl she loved under a hawthorn tree in bloom, and the girl had stroked her hair, and told her she was beautiful.

Now that she was an old woman, Elizabeth liked to remember those halcyon days.

(Not the time that came after; not the tears on bended knee to her sister, that stern paragon of God-touched righteousness, as she begged for her lover’s life; not the sadly sensible way that her sister had refused, claiming that her lover would be a rallying cry for rebellion as long as she lived; not the dark day on which they cut off her lover’s head.)

Virgin Queen, men called her, never thinking that untouched by man was not the same as untouched at all. She had never brought a man into her bed, but she had never wanted a man there. Oh, let them flatter, for she liked to flirt with a pretty man. But she had only ever woken in one woman’s arms, only ever shuddered for joy at the touch of one woman, only ever vowed to cherish and love one woman. 

Someday they would come to bury her. Someday her cousin would wind his way down from Scotland, coming to claim her throne. “Virgin Queen,” they would whisper over her bier – in respect or in censure, it hardly mattered.

What mattered was a hawthorn tree, bridal blossoms in her hair, the sound of laughter in the air, and the kisses of the girl she loved. 

“Jane,” Elizabeth whispered, and smiled.


End file.
